


Daybreak

by Phylwannabe



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Eventual Romance, F/M, Marriage of Convenience, Marriage of Expediency, Political Alliances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:07:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26216878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phylwannabe/pseuds/Phylwannabe
Summary: Jon is leaving for Dragonstone in the morning to meet Danaerys with the intent of forming an alliance through marriage. Sansa is convinced he will not survive the trip south, and if he does she may not.  Despite all of her pleading, nothing will change his mind.At the last minute, Bran (yes, Bran is already at Winterfell in my story) tells her something that changes everything and gives Sansa a political solution that just might work.  Convincing Jon will be the hard part and she only has one night.Also, in this story Bran and Sam (yes, Sam and Gilly have arrived as well)  have already shared the big reveal so Jon and Sansa know exactly who Jon is and, more importantly, know that they are cousins and not half-siblings.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 83
Kudos: 417





	1. Chapter 1

He would be leaving on the morrow at first light. Going against the strong advice offered by Yahn Royce and others, Jon had determined to travel with only his Hand and four Northern liegemen as his companions. _Hardly enough men to make any kind of impression upon the Dragon Queen._

She had urged him to refrain from traveling South himself, arguing for hours that, as King, it would be appropriate to send an emissary instead. Despite her desire to stay calm, her voice escalated in agitation, until her throat gave out, leaving her hoarse and frustrated. She was incensed that he had sat calmly, silently, during her entire tirade and in the end, had ignored every point she had made, merely asking her politely if, as Lady of Winterfell, she would insure that Cook knew to pack morning food in the saddle bags since the King and his men would be breaking their fast while on horseback. _He can’t wait to leave his Kingdom, his keep,....me._

Supper had been a subdued affair. The Northern lords who were still at Winterfell had been mostly quiet, sullenly resigned to their King’s unpopular decision. The Free Folk in attendance were a bit merrier, largely because the big man called Giantsbane seemed totally unconcerned about the potential danger to his friend if he traveled south. The evening had seen Tormund repeatedly imbibing from the disgusting concoction contained in his drinking horn. He had become louder and louder as he held forth on a virtual litany of Jon’s abilities as a warrior. Sansa had blushed to the roots of her hair when Tormund’s praise of Jon’s battlefield attributes suddenly veered off into a ribald discussion concerning the diminutive size of the _Little Crow’s_ pecker.

Jon must have seen her squirming because the bemused expression he had worn during the entirely of Tormund’s monologue suddenly disappeared. He stood, marched around the table and in a low voice that nevertheless carried to the far corners of the room, addressed the Wildling. Yanking the horn from the big man’s hand, liquid sloshing all around, he snarled. "Have a care, Tormund. I will not have you speak tonight of matters which are not fit for a lady’s ears." Tormund’s eyes widened as he owlishly looked down at his friend. Sansa sensed that several swords had just been eased from their scabbards in preparation for the big man violently objecting to the King’s rebuke. Swaying slightly on his feet, Tormund took the horn from Jon’s hand and looked mournfully inside. "You spilled my goat’s milk, Jon," he whined, and then slid down on a nearby bench. "Get him to a bed," Jon directed some of the Free Folk men even as he turned to her, scanning her face with an apologetic shrug of his shoulders.

"With your permission, Your Grace, it has been a long day and I would seek my chambers." Jon closed his eyes briefly and then nodded, "Of course, Sansa. Do you require an escort?"

Sansa shook her head and responded with a rebuke that carried more heat than was entirely proper. "No, Your Grace. For tonight at least, I am still safe within my own castle." She stood, gathering her skirts around her, then gave a quick bow, and escaped the Great Hall.

******************************************************************************

After leaving the hall, she had sent a private message to the King’s Hand, requesting that he join her in the rooms which her younger brother had occupied since his return from North of the Wall. She intended one final attempt at convincing Ser Davos that he must somehow keep Jon at Winterfell. Sam Tarly was already there, perched in a chair beside the small writing table situated near the fireplace. He was in the process of securing the scrolls brought from the Citadel at Oldtown inside a locked box which would be hidden for safekeeping behind a loose stone near Bran’s fireplace. The scrolls contained written evidence about Jon’s parentage that had dramatically shifted Sansa’s world. Everything she had always believed about Jon was a lie. He was neither her half-brother nor was he a Snow. Jon was her _cousin_ , the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and her aunt, Lyanna Stark. Her dear father had damaged his reputation and sacrificed no little domestic bliss in order to protect her cousin. The written evidence Sam brought to Winterfell lent legitimacy to Jon’s birth and certainty to the strange visions that Bran had already shared with Jon, Davos, and Sansa. She knew that her cousin was still struggling with his new found identity but, Jon being Jon, he had chosen to keep his feelings inside and talk to no one about them.

All those in what Sansa had begun to think of as the " _King’s Inner Circle_ " agreed that the explosive news regarding Jon’s parentage must absolutely be kept strictly between them if Jon was going to be able to continue to lead the North in the battle against the Night King. Sansa knew that the stubborn Northern lords would not follow a Targaryen, no matter that he was also half Stark. _The North Remembers,_ little Lyanna Mormont often fiercely proclaimed, and it was true. The North would never follow the grandson of the Mad King who had murdered their Lord and heir just 20 odd years ago, no matter the impending threat to their own safety.

Sam rose hastily with a murmured, _My Lady._ He swept his hand toward the chair. Brushing his offer aside, she moved to warm her chilled hands before the fireplace. After a few moments, the heat somewhat soothing her nerves, Sansa turned and moved to stand beside Bran’s wheeled chair. Placing what she hoped was a welcomed hand on his shoulder, she turned to face the two other men in the room.

"Everything we have tried so far has been to no avail, gentlemen. My broth,..." she broke off, biting her lip, "...my cousin, is determined to go to Dragonstone himself, maintaining that only a king can successfully negotiate with a queen." She glanced toward the King’s Hand. "Ser Davos, what can we do to protect the King in light of his stubborn insistence to put himself in danger?"

Davos flexed his fingerless hand in the ever-present glove as he shrugged. "My Lady, you well know Jon Snow’s mind. He has determined that if the North is to survive the horrors which the Night King will certainly bring, we must seek help. Jon has considered all sources from which we could hope to receive aid and he believes the best,... really..., the only option is Daenerys Stormborn. The King cannot trust Cersei and I suspect that you feel the same, with good reason. Where else can he go for assistance, my Lady?"

Sansa huffed in frustration and crossed her arms, wanting to deflect the hard common sense coming from Seaworth’s mouth. "But Jon _doesn’t_ have to go himself. He can send you as an envoy." She moved to place a slender hand on the older man’s arm. "I don’t want to see you harmed either, Ser Davos, but you know that if Jon goes in person, _if_ he brings himself within the Dragon Queen’s sphere of influence, he leaves himself open to be taken as a hostage, to be held prisoner, or to be killed. What happens to the North if they lose their King?"

Davos patted her arm in sympathy. "I understand your fears, Lady Sansa, and they are not without merit. But you must try to see the King’s point of view. He believes this to be our only chance to survive and he would do anything to gain an alliance with the Targaryen Queen. He has looked at this from all sides of the issue and he has determined that the best thing –really- the only thing – he has to offer Daenerys is himself. An alliance through marriage with the North is nothing to belittle. Jon believes that everything we know about the Queen suggests she would see merit to such an arrangement. Further, Tyrion actually hinted as much in his message and the King says that the Imp does nothing without purpose and intent. But if Jon’s offer of marriage is to work, it must happen quickly in order to receive the help that Daenerys can provide. Thus, we do not have time for protracted third person negotiations. That is why Jon feels that it is essential he go in person."

Sam gasped. "But he can’t seriously consider marrying a Targaryen! I mean, I know that _technically_ Jon is one himself, but he wasn’t raised as a dragon. I just can’t see him ever being truly happy if he marries Daenerys Stormborn. He would be miserable living in the capital. And I _know_ that Jon would be uneasy having," Sam stammered over his words, his cheeks flushed as he cast a sideways glance at Sansa, " _intimate_ relations with his aunt."

Davos shook his head emphatically. "The fact that Jon is her nephew will have little negative impact upon Daenerys. She likely would see an advantage to keeping the bloodline pure for any heirs their marriage might produce. Further, you misunderstand the King’s intentions. He is not looking for romance on this journey." He glanced at Sansa. "This is not _Florian and Jonquil_. Jon is a practical man. He knows his duty and if an alliance through marriage is what is best for his people, Jon will hold his nose and sacrifice his own desires to achieve that goal." Davos leaned his hip against the writing table and tented his gloved hands in his lap. "If, by some happenstance, the marriage proves a happy one, that would surely be a bonus. But love and romance are not Jon’s primary concerns."

Sansa clasped her hand in agitation. "What if the Mother of Dragons has no interest in the confines of a marriage? Rumor has it that she is rather free with her favors....she has been married once before and has spurned other suitors, or," her voice rising in worried agitation, "had them killed. Rumor also has it that she left a sell sword lover back in Meereen when she set sail for Dragonstone. She may have absolutely no interest in becoming Jon’s wife. What if she spurns our King’s offer of marriage? He will have wasted several moons traveling for naught. And what will we bargain with then?"

Davos chuckled. "My Lady, I know that you have many worries and concerns to occupy your attention, but surely it has not escaped your notice that most of the ladies in this keep, highborn or otherwise, are more than a bit taken with your cousin."

Sansa pinched the top of her nose and exhaled sharply. "Yes, yes, no doubt there are infinite numbers of silly women who would love to climb into Jon’s bed. But I doubt very seriously that Daenerys will give Jon what he seeks just because he is a comely man." She spread her hands in front of her as if in supplication. "I cannot help my worries. I have first hand knowledge that Stark men do not fare well when they go South. Jon is still more Stark than Targaryen. I fear what will happen if Jon leaves Winterfell and travels South. How can we ever be sure he will be safe?"

Sam tapped the table top. "Don’t worry, Lady Sansa. I have known Jon for years and he has been in many, many tight spots. He _always_ comes back."

Sansa smiled bleakly at Jon’s old friend. "Thank you, Sam. I know that Jon is an accomplished warrior and a brave man. But Jon will need an entirely different set of skills to survive at Dragonstone. He is not prepared to deal with the political vipers that flourish south of the Neck.

Davos cleared his throat and looked toward the dying fire. "My lady, I think it is time that Master Sam and I find our beds. Daybreak will come all too soon and my old bones need their rest." He paused, letting Sam move ahead, toward the chamber door, and again touched her arm gently. "Don’t worry, Sansa. I have sworn to give your cousin my best counsel. I promise you I will do my best to keep Jon safe. And I _do_ have some experience with the dark politics of the South." 

Sansa sighed. She looked down at her brother who had been silent throughout. She gently ran her fingers through the back of his straight black hair, much as she imagined her lady mother might have done. "I will see that your valet comes to help you to bed." She kissed the top of his head. "Goodnight."

"Sansa." Bran’s calm, eerie voice brought her up short.

She turned at the doorway. "Brother?"

Bran turned his chair to face his sister. The firelight behind him cast an otherworldly glow. Sansa was still trying to understand exactly what had happened to her little brother in the far north, but she had seen enough to know that when Bran actually deigned to speak, she needed to listen.

She knelt beside his chair. "There is something you must do before Jon leaves, Sansa. It is the only way to make sure he will survive the trip south."

Sansa’s breath came out in an eager whisper. "I will do _anything_ to keep Jon safe. What must I do, Bran?"

No emotion inflected her brother’s voice as he responded. "Marry the King tonight under the Godswood, Sansa. Couple with him, receive his seed, and conceive an heir. That is the only thing that can save Jon Snow when he travels south to meet Daenerys Targaryen."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa enlists Brienne to move her plan along. Davos spells it all out for Jon. Midnight approaches.

Sansa flew out of Bran’s chambers, colliding with Brienne who, with her usual dogged determination, had sussed out exactly where Sansa was located within the keep and had followed her there, taking up guard outside the door.

"Milady!" Brienne exclaimed holding out an arm to steady her mistress. "What is wrong? Is your brother in distress?"

Sansa gasped, "Seven hells, Brienne! I wasn’t expecting you!" She grasped her side where a stitch had suddenly appeared and took a deep breath. _So much to do before daybreak._ "But your presence here is certainly welcome. I need your help." She fixed her sworn shield with a steady gaze. "You will no doubt think I am making several serious errors in judgment before tonight is over. Will you trust me, Brienne, and follow my orders implicitly and without question?"

Brienne’s eyes widened; she swallowed hard and then returned her lady’s look with an open one of her own. "I am sworn to your service, Lady Sansa. I cannot allow you to harm yourself, but if you ask me to trust you, I will strive to do so....as long as you are not putting yourself in physical danger."

Sansa motioned for her friend to follow her as she hurried away from Bran’s chambers. "I can assure you, my friend, there is no physical danger to me in what I plan to do. _The damage to my heart is another matter entirely._ In truth, I...." Sansa shook herself; time to consider the true motivations behind her actions after they were accomplished. "There is much to do, Brienne, and very little time to see it done." She stopped suddenly and grasped the taller woman’s arm. "Tell me, what do you know of Lord Baelish and his whereabouts this evening?"

Brienne’s lips thinned in disapproval. "I would urge you to avoid that....that.... _man_...., Milady. He is not," she pursed her mouth as if tasting something bitter, "trustworthy." Sansa laughed at the _oh so obvious_ statement. "Of course he isn’t! I merely need to make sure that he has no knowledge of what will transpire this evening. He must not be allowed to leave his chamber once he enters."

A nod in satisfaction. "He has already entered his rooms. I will send Podrick to insure that he does not leave them until morning."

"Good." Sansa quickened her steps and Brienne hurried after as instructions flew from Sansa’s lips faster than a galloping horse. "Find Davos and tell him it is urgent he comes to my solar as soon as possible. Then find Sam and Gilly and tell them to be under the Great Weirwood within the hour. I will send a maid to watch over little Sam so they do not have to wake him. Finally, when all that is accomplished, return to my brother’s chambers and make sure he is ready. I will need you to deliver him to the Godswood as well."

Sansa stopped outside her chamber door. She turned to Brienne and lowered her voice so that no stealthy observer lurking in the corridor could possibly hear what she would say next. "I must make myself ready now, Lady Brienne. I will have Sir Davos escort me to our meeting site at the right time."

"Milad...."

"Brienne, I _understand_ you have questions, but I have no time right now to answer them." Sansa opened the door, her flushed face illuminated by the light from the fireplace. "I promise you I _know_ what I am doing. Just do as I ask, please."

Brienne stood while the door was shut in her face. She didn’t like mysteries, particularly ones that could negatively impact the Lady Sansa. But the girl seemed determined and absolutely sure of her actions. Brienne thought Sansa one of the smartest people she had ever encountered. And since she had promised to trust her, as her sworn shield, she would make sure to follow her Lady’s orders to the letter. Brienne set off at a brisk clip, heading off to find the Onion Knight.

************************************************************************

Jon had just finished polishing Long Claw. Sliding it back into the scabbard, and setting the sword by his bed, he stood and stretched, muscles knotted from a long day of frustrating argument with his Lords, his council, and, as always, with Sansa. Jon pressed his fists into his lower back and exhaled as he rolled his head around to relieve the tension in his shoulders and neck.

He was making a final inspection of the saddlebags he had laid on the bed when a sharp knock interrupted him. Jon opened the door to be greeted by a clearly harried Davos Seaworth.

"I thought you were headed off to bed hours ago."

Jon had noticed that the Hand’s Flea Bottom accent became particularly pronounced when he was nervous. If the thickness of his speech tonight was any indication, Davos was about ready to have an attack of apoplexy.

Jon motioned the older man to a chair and poured him a glass of ale. "What has happened, Ser Davos?"

The man gulped the contents of the mug down and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth before speaking. "Gods, sometimes I wish I had just gone back south when I had the chance. You Starks will be the death of me!"

Jon fell into the chair opposite his Hand, sighing. You’ve no doubt been talking to Sansa. I love her to my very bones, but that girl will never give up on her position. She’ll be running barefooted after our horses in the morn, lamenting for all to hear concerning the stupidity of the men who disregard her."

Davos set his glass down forcefully. "Your Grace, whether you realize it or not, you are _very_ , _very_ lucky to have the Lady Sansa in your corner. She has just imparted news to me that changes everything. Our plans _must_ change in light of this information."

Jon leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Go on, Davos. What has changed?"

Davos leaned forward toward the King. "Bran has shared something about the Dragon Queen that we didn’t know."

Jon gestured impatiently. "Out with it."

"The Dragon Queen is barren."

Jon snorted. "That can’t be right. She was married to that Dothraki Khal and was pregnant by him when he died."

Davos nodded. "That’s correct. But according to what Bran told Sansa, he has seen the circumstances of Khal Drogo’s death. It was evidently very traumatic, extremely violent, and full of what Bran called _dark magic_. As a result Daenerys went into labor way before her time. There was no Maester, not even a midwife attending her, and the delivery was horribly botched. The babe died and the girl was evidently irreparably damaged."

Jon sat back, stunned into silence. "So you are saying she cannot have children."

Davos nodded then reached across the table to grasp the younger man’s arm. "This is game changing, Jon."

Jon pulled his arm away from Davos and jumped to his feet, pacing around his solar. "I don’t see why it should be. I am not planning to marry Daenerys in order to sire a pack of wolf pups. I am doing this for her dragons, her armies, and the dragon glass she controls. It matters little to me that she cannot carry a babe. I never thought to have children anyway."

"I know that, Your Grace. But the fact that Daenerys cannot carry a pregnancy to term of necessity changes our strategy."

Jon returned to his seat. "How so?"

Davos spoke slowly, each word emphasized. "Your Grace, what does every ambitious ruler desire?"

Jon chuckled, "You are asking the wrong person, Seaworth. You well know that I am King only because it is the only way I can prepare the North for the threat beyond the Wall. What _does_ an ambitious ruler desire?"

Davos leaned forward. "They _desire_ to create a dynasty. When Aegon and his warrior sisters conquered Westeros, they initiated a dynasty that lasted almost 300 years. Daenerys wants nothing more than to rebuild her ancestors’ heritage, but to do that she must have heirs to follow her."

Jon crossed his arms. "I am her nephew. As such _I_ can be her heir. We have already decided to take copies of the proof concerning my birth that Sam provided us. Once she knows and accepts my true identity, I will swear to support her in her efforts to gain the Iron Throne. In exchange Daenerys will support us in the fight against the Night King and when.... _IF...._ we succeed, I will rule the North as her chosen heir.

"Yes, Your Grace, but then what? Now that we know the truth concerning Daenerys, it is very easy to imagine what she will want from you. Your true value as her nephew is _not_ as her replacement on the throne." Davos shook his head at his King in fond exasperation. "Given your foolhardy willingness to throw yourself into the thick of every battle, you stand a much better chance than her to be killed at a young age. She will want _you_ to produce Targaryen heirs as soon as possible and you cannot do that if you are married to her."

Jon fell back in his chair, comprehension dawning on his face. "So she will want me to marry someone else?"

Davos nodded emphatically. "Yes! And the person she chooses may not be in the best interests of Winterfell or the North! You cannot leave that choice to chance!" Davos stood up briskly and moved to Jon’s cupboard. "That is why we must act tonight, in secret of course, before we leave on the morrow. Now, where is your dress shirt and best gambeson? Have you packed them already?"

Jon shook his head in confusion. "Why are you so worried about my clothes?"

Davos threw a glance back at his King as he bent over the bed rifling through his bags. "No offense, Your Grace, but you surely do not plan to marry dressed in your everyday tunic!" Ignoring Jon’s slack jawed look of amazement, the Hand moved quickly to pour water into the basin by Jon’s bed. "Begging the King’s pardon, but you may want to wash up as well. It’s been a long day and you smell a bit gamey."

Jon exploded, beyond tired of his Hand’s cryptic conversation. "Gods, Davos, what are you nattering on about? I have no plans to get married! And even if I did, what would possess me to marry in the dead of night? And who in all the seven hells am I supposed to be marrying?"

Ignoring the tirade, Davos dipped a sponge into the basin, thrust it at the King and began pulling clothes from his satchel. "The plans are already made, Your Grace. You are marrying at midnight because the Northern lords cannot know what is afoot, at least not now. And you are marrying the loveliest, most highborn lady in Winterfell."

Fierce emotions of dread and sick fascination twisted together inside Jon, making his stomach clench painfully. The wet sponge he held dripped on the stones of his chambers as his mind churned and then settled. "Who am I marrying, Davos? he whispered.

Davos triumphantly pulled a comb from the saddle bag and flourished it toward his King’s unruly locks. "Why the Lady of Winterfell of course, Your Grace. Your cousin, Sansa Stark."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wedding at Winterfell...that's it, that's the summary.

Sansa smoothed down her dress with both hands and turned to the side for a critical gaze in the long mirror that hung in her solar. Her copper hair hung loose, flowing down past her waist, almost as if she were a virgin bride. Sansa defiantly glared back at the image that solemnly regarded her through the wavy glass. _Why shouldn’t I dress as a maiden? This is the first of my weddings where I actually go to meet my husband willingly. I truly feel like a maid even though I am anything but._

Certainly her nerves were those of a first time bride. She was as pale as the snow on the castle ramparts and her hands were visibly trembling. Sansa pinched her cheeks and bit her lips for color. She had chosen slippers, thinking it would not be seemly to wear boots which would make her inches taller than the groom. Sansa scanned the room; all was in readiness for when she.... _when they_....returned to the Lord’s chambers.

For the first time since returning to Winterfell, Sansa was glad that Jon had insisted she claim her parents' rooms as her own. In her frantic attempts to somewhat normalize this evening’s activities, she had turned the bed coverings back, fluffed the pillows, and sprinkled the last of the fading winter rose petals over the sheets. Sansa glanced again at her image in the mirror. Her reflection seemed to smirk at her, mocking all her attempts at romance as if to say-- _of all your three marriages, this is easily the most political. You are a silly girl to hope for more than a quick coupling tonight._

Sansa heard a knock at her door. She took a deep breath and scooped up the soft gray cloak that laid over a chair. Opening the door, she found Ser Davos, hastily dressed in his best garb, with an arm extended to her. "Is all in readiness?" she whispered as she accepted his escort. "Yes," came the quiet reply. "He will be waiting under the weirwood tree." She spoke carefully into the Onion’s Knight ear, "Is he willing?" only to receive an apologetic shrug and a pat on her arm. "The King understands what is at stake and he will, as ever, put his duty first." Sansa nodded, her heart deflating just a bit, as she and the older man moved into the shadows.

****************************************************

Davos had half-bullied, half-rallied Jon, exhorting him to hurry up, for gods’ sake, so that he could bathe, dress, and be at the wedding site well ahead of everyone else. His Hand had then taken off at a hurried pace to retrieve ---as the Onion Knight gleefully put it -- _The Bride._

As Jon had made his way through the quiet castle grounds, his nerves on edge, he was beyond grateful when Ghost had appeared like a wraith from out of the darkness, the direwolf silently padding beside him as he moved toward the Godswood.

Jon had arrived just before Sam and Gilly while Brienne appeared shortly thereafter, pushing Bran in his wheeled chair. While Sam and Gilly kept their heads together, giggling like two children at a winter fair, Brienne and Bran were their usual stoic selves. It was apparent to Jon that, with the exception of the crippled boy and himself, none of those present had any inkling of what was about to transpire. While Jon certainly wanted to demand more information from his cryptic brother – well, cousin – he doubted that Bran would be at all forthcoming with Brienne present. Jon gulped, growing more than a bit uncomfortable as he considered what Sansa’s sworn shield would say when he and Sansa, brother and sister to Brienne’s thinking, actually began to recite wedding vows. He could only hope that Sansa would be willing to place herself between his person and the warrior’s sword. _Maybe that is the best I can hope for tonight,_ Jon thought ruefully, _to be skewered by the tallest woman in Westeros. That could be the solution to this whole fucking dilemma._ Jon shifted the weight of his cloak more solidly around his body and tamped his emotions down. _Fool that I am, to think there could possibly be more to this than just our smart Sansa seeing a solution to our political problems...._

Sansa paused at the entrance to the Godswood. Davos squeezed her shoulder. He would leave her here, to enter alone at the right moment. Jon’s Hand moved stealthily, cloak in hand, toward the giant tree where the ceremony would take place. She and Davos had agreed that he would conduct the ceremony while Sam and Gilly, Bran and Brienne would all serve as witnesses.

Sansa peered into the dark, the few torches lit under the tree giving her just enough light to make out the forms of those waiting. When she determined that she had given Ser Davos sufficient time to reach his destination, she began slowly walking toward the marriage altar. As she placed one deliberate step in front of the other, Sansa suddenly felt the pull of a dark bone-deep dread; against her will, she found her mind transported back to another evening, but a few years past, when she had processed this trail, toward a different altar and a very different husband. In her imagination, she saw Ramsey standing before her, his evil grin as pointed as the end of the dagger he had delighted using on her time and time again. Sansa halted, feeling as if her chest housed a hundred ravens; her heart was thumping and she could feel her pulse throbbing at her wrists and in her throat.

_I mustn’t faint, I cannot give Jon any excuse to put an end to this wedding. Jon isn’t Ramsey, he is as different from Ramsey as anyone could be. He is what Father always promised, always told me I should have...._

Sansa couldn’t understand what happened next, nor even years later could she truly explain it, but just as quickly as the nauseating fear had enveloped her, it disappeared, to be replaced by a great comforting warmth which settled close around her, soothing as a hug, while she waited, willing her nerves to calm. She heard a familiar, well loved voice whispering through the wood, _"I promised you, my darlin’ girl. A man who is worthy of you, someone brave, gentle and strong. Jon is all that and more. Go now, take his hand, and make him yours."_

*************************************************************

There was no music, no lute or lyre, there were no doves winging through the air, no flower petals floating to the path she walked, and no throngs of adoring subjects lining the way. There were only a few smoking torches staked in the ground before the holy tree, lighting the faces of a handful of good, true friends, and there was Jon....

He stood before her, slim and straight-backed, raven curls drawn back from his face, impossibly handsome. Was it just her fancy or did his dark, beautiful eyes light up when he saw her approach? She moved to stand opposite him, Davos between them. She lowered her gaze, suddenly shy, only to look up suddenly when his warm hands touched her own.

Sansa was a vision. Dressed simply, her long hair gleaming in the torchlight, she had never been more beautiful. Jon smiled as he realized she was wearing his personal favorite of all her gowns...the first dress she had made for herself after reaching Castle Black. He took her small hands in his own, relishing in the feel of their softness against his own calloused palms. She was trembling, clearly nervous, even as her small tongue darted out to moisten her lips. _Gods, she is as undone as I am!_ Jon drew her near and smiled into her raised eyes. "I like your dress...especially the wolf bits," he whispered, and was rewarded with a blinding smile.

"Ahem," Davos cleared his throat, and the young couple turned to face him. "Who comes here before the old Gods, to be married this night?"

An audible gasp from Lady Tarth’s direction was quieted by Sansa’s sudden, sharp gaze and a whispered, "I promise, I will explain everything. You _must_ trust me." The girl then turned back and stated in a low, clear voice that carried through the night. "Sansa of the house Stark, daughter of Eddard and Catelyn, former Lord and Lady of Winterfell, a woman grown and flowered, true born and noble. I come to claim the blessings of the gods."

Davos smiled at her and turned to the man standing next to her. "Who claims this woman?"

All eyes turned to Jon Snow. Davos suddenly realized that he had no idea how his King would respond. He held his breath, then expelled it with relief as a warm, deep voice responded: "Jon Snow, reared as the Bastard of Winterfell, a Man sworn to the Brotherhood of the Night’s Watch, later Lord Commander at the Wall, released by death from my vow, the true born son of Lyanna Stark and Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, Aegon, the White Wolf, King in the North." Jon heard another gasp from the Lady Brienne, this time overlaid by the clear, delighted laugh emanating from his bride.

"Have you brought your cloak with which to protect and shield your lady from all harm, present and future?" Embarrassed, Jon started to shake his head, only to stop short as Davos reached out to lay a heavy garment in his arms. He turned to Sansa to see her smiling softly at him. _She has thought of everything._

Sansa bent slightly to allow him to unfurl and wrap the gray cloak around her shoulders. Jon noticed that the back of the cloak bore the snarling visage of a white direwolf with ruby red eyes. Jon stepped closer, drawing the soft furs around her neck, and tying the white cord to secure the cloak.

Davos cleared his throat again, "Kneel now to ask the blessing of the old gods upon this union."

Jon took Sansa’s hand as they lowered themselves to the cold ground. Jon had long ago lost faith in the gods, but tonight he prayed, not knowing for sure that his plea would be heard, but still hoping that it would. _She may not love me, I may not yet love her as I should, but grant us length of life so that we may have time to learn to truly love and care for one another._

Jon felt Sansa squeeze his hand and he took that as a sign she was finished. He rose to his feet, helping her to do the same. They turned to face each other, an awkward pause ending only when Davos gave a exasperated snort, "Go on... kiss her, Boy!"

Sansa closed her eyes as Jon’s face drew near. She felt his dry, soft lips touch hers, so gently she wondered if she had imagined it, and then just as suddenly he moved away. She blinked, strangely disappointed. But then Jon wrapped her in a warm embrace and Sansa was crying sudden, happy tears as they were surrounded by a joyous circle of direwolf, friends, and family.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OK, so please don't hate me, but Bran has all this important information he has to share before Jon and Sansa can make it back to the castle for what remains of their wedding night. As this story is developing, Jon will need all the help he can get when he gets to Dragonstone, so let's allow Bran to do his thing. I promise; next chapter will be exclusively Sansa and Jon.

By agreement, the small wedding party staggered their departures from the godswood. Davos instructed Sam & Gilly to go first, advising that if hailed by a guard from the ramparts, they should be prepared with a plausible explanation as to why they were outside their chambers after midnight. Before leaving, Gilly bestowed cheerful smiles, including all, even Bran, in her affections, while Sam settled for timidly kissing Sansa’s hand and exchanging a quick, fierce hug with his best friend and King. 

Davos went next but only after inquiring of Jon as to whether plans had changed regarding the time of their leave taking in the morn, "seeing as you two have kept an old man from his rest tonight for far longer than is fair and proper". Jon opened his mouth to respond, but Sansa was quicker. “I think, Ser Davos, that it would not be wise to alter travel plans at this point. Any deviation from the King’s schedule is bound to draw comment and there are those in the keep who would find even that enough reason to become curious...” 

“Like that rat, Littlefinger,” Lady Tarth snorted. Jon nodded fiercely and Sansa found comfort in the fact that while her sworn shield certainly wasn’t happy with the night’s events, she and the King could still find common ground in their mutual dislike for Petyr Baelish.

Davos clapped his hands together, “It’s settled then. At daybreak, Your Grace. A nod to Brienne, “Goodnight, Lady Tarth”, and then bowing respectfully toward Sansa, “Goodnight, Milady.” He started down the path toward the wall that separated the castle grounds from the godswood, calling back over his shoulder. “Lovely wedding it was, and if you would permit me, Your Grace, you were very wise to follow your Hand’s advice and marry one of the smartest women I have ever had the pleasure to know.” 

Sansa grasped Brienne’s arm, prepared to share a brief explanation of the night’s events with her sworn shield, but the warrior, eyes glittering in the dimming torchlight, shook her head fiercely. Placing her hand over Sansa’s slender fingers, she whispered. “Davos is right, Milady. You are very smart and I would be a fool to take you away from what yet remains of your wedding night just to satisfy my curiosity. We can talk tomorrow, after the King departs.” Bestowing a stiff nod in Jon’s direction, Brienne started to push Bran away, but halted when the young man raised his hand. “Lady Tarth, a moment please.” She paused, then nodded, and moved down the path, giving the three young people privacy.

Jon cleared his throat, but for the second time in as many minutes was interrupted as Bran spoke. “Jon, the proof of your parentage is compelling. When you present that evidence to your aunt at Dragonstone, be prepared that her first reaction will be to see you as a threat to what she believes is her birthright, her right to rule as Queen of all Westeros.”

Jon expelled a harsh breath. “I don’t want anything to do with the blasted throne. I want to protect my people. I want to defeat the Night King and make the North safe for us all. After that, if I am still alive, I just want to live, in peace, at Winterfell. That is all I have ever wanted.”

Bran ignored Jon’s outburst as if he hadn't spoken. “Tyrion Lannister will be of great assistance in convincing the Queen of your suitability as an heir. He implored Daenerys to name a successor even before her ships left Meereen. As the Queen’s Hand, Tyrion will appreciate the stability that you, as her acknowledged successor, can provide for her reign. Once Daenerys gets past her fear of you as a potential rival, however, you will face an even bigger challenge.”

Sansa placed her hand on Bran’s shoulder. “Brother, you told me that if Jon acknowledged Daenerys as the rightful Queen, she would be satisfied.” Bran looked up at his sister with an inscrutable expression. “I am not sure that Daenerys Stormborn will ever be truly satisfied.”

Bran directed his gaze back to Jon. “Once you gain her trust and she accepts that you have no interest in challenging her for the throne, Daenerys will accept you as her heir, but she will also seek more from you than just kinship.”

Jon expelled a harsh breath from his mouth. “What are you getting at cousin?” 

Bran’s eerie monotone continued. “Before Viserys bartered his sister to Khal Drago in exchange for a Dothraki army, he had intended to take Daenerys as his own wife.” Sansa felt Jon grasp her hand tightly as her brother spoke. “That is the Targaryen way. Since her brother’s death at the hands of the Khal, Daenerys has believed herself to be the last Targaryen. She will be delighted to find that she has a nephew, even if you are more wolf than dragon.”

Sansa interrupted. “Bran, you urged us to wed tonight so Jon could present our marriage as a solution to Daenerys’ need for an heir while insuring that Jon would not be forced to choose a southern bride. Are you now saying that our marriage might not matter to the Dragon Queen?”

Bran cast a calm gaze on his sister. “Your marriage and the progeny that derive from it will most definitely matter to Daenerys. But unless she recognizes that you and Jon are truly, fully joined, she will not view your marriage as an impediment to her desires. Targaryens are not known for monogamy.” Bran looked directly at the King. “I am telling you this, Jon, so you will clearly understand the importance of what happens between now and daybreak. I know that you are inclined to go back to your chambers, to spend the rest of the night alone. I know you think that because of what she suffered as Ramsey’s wife, Sansa is not ready to be your wife, that she may never be ready. I know you think you are doing Sansa a kindness, but if you would truly protect my sister, you must consummate your marriage tonight. Otherwise, you will not be prepared to argue against the advances that Daenerys Stormborn will most assuredly make toward you. I also tell you this because,...” Bran looked toward Sansa with something of his old demeanor, “...because even though I may seem much changed, I still have true affection for my sister and I would not see her hurt by your actions when you are away from Winterfell.”

Sansa bent over her brother’s chair and kissed the top of his head. “Thank you, brother. I love you.” She looked over at her husband. “But it is late and well past time that the King and I should have retired to our chambers.”

Jon nodded to where Brienne waited patiently. “Allow your Shield to escort you back to your chambers, Sansa.” He began to push Bran’s chair down the snowy path. “I will make sure that Bran gets to his room safely.” Sansa’s mouth opened, but Jon shook his head, forestalling any comment. “It will be better if we are not seen together tonight. I promise. I will join you as soon as I can.” 

No words passed between Jon and his cousin while he helped him back to his room. Opening the chamber door, Jon found Bran’s aide slumped in a chair, dozing by the fireplace. The servant had clearly nodded off while waiting for Bran to return. Jon closed the door quietly and knelt next to Bran in the hallway, who was studying the flagstones of the hallway with an avid intensity. 

Jon spoke, his deep voice hoarse with emotion. “I didn’t plan on getting married tonight, Bran. In the last few hours, I have been required to make choices that I wasn’t expecting to make. But I have pledged a solemn vow before the gods tonight and I know my duty. I would never betray my promise to Sansa.”

Jon recoiled in sudden horror as Bran looked up. His cousin’s eyes were leeched of all color, leaving behind only milky white orbs in their place. It was Bran who spoke but the words, carried through the corridor in a strong Northern brogue, were not his cousin’s words. 

“Aye. I broke my vows. I ate with the Wildlins’, I climbed the wall with the Wildins’, I lay...I lay with a Wilding girl.”

Jon’s reborn heart threatened to leave his chest. He wanted to flee, but his legs refused to obey his mental commands. He sat, frozen, in the cold hallway next to the chair that held the body of his cousin. After a long moment, the boy Jon had loved since he was born shifted, closed his eyes, and then opened them again to reveal the return of his usual stoic gaze. Jon’s heart ached for his cousin who suddenly appeared ancient. It was clear to Jon that Bran was being weighed down by all the unfiltered knowledge that had been transferred to his mind by the former three eyed Raven. Jon wanted to speak, to comfort the younger Stark, but he could find no words adequate to express what he was feeling. Finally, Bran broke the silence. He sighed wearily, pushing his own chair through the door. “Your wife is waiting, Jon. Go to her.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A long chapter in which Jon and Sansa do their duty. Be warned in case the rating didn't change; we are now in adult only territory.

Sansa dismissed her sworn shield once they arrived in the hallway leading to her chambers. When Brienne started to protest that she could not leave Sansa alone, obviously prepared to wax eloquent concerning the need to be outside her lady’s room at all times, Sansa merely held up one finger to silence her personal guard and then pointed to their silent, four footed companion who had already curled up in a large ball right beside her doorway. “Ghost will protect me until his master arrives,” Sansa whispered to Brienne who still wore a stubborn frown. “There is absolutely nothing to worry about, Lady Tarth. I will be fine and you need your rest if you are to resume your duties once the King departs tomorrow.”

Brienne tersely nodded but departed only after giving Ghost a silent, but pointed, look which clearly communicated that the direwolf should stay alert and fierce.

Sansa patted Ghost on his massive head, then slipped inside. She didn’t bother sliding the heavy bar into place, expecting Jon to be along eventually. While the fire had died down a bit, the room was still warm and cozy. By Sansa’s best estimate, it was just after midnight. Assuming Jon actually kept his promise and came straight to her after seeing Bran safe inside for the night, they would have at best a mere five hours together before Jon would leave Winterfell. Given the need to make every moment count, Sansa mentally admonished herself to stop cloud gathering and to prepare herself for her husband’s arrival.

Sansa undressed without ceremony. She removed her dainty slippers which had been ruined beyond repair by the snow and damp of the godswood. Stockings followed and she paused to look at herself in the mirror only after she was down to only her chemise. Sansa closed her eyes. Would Jon be able to look past the old, silvery scars that littered her back, courtesy of Joffrey’s whippings? Then there were the more recent and far more prominent signs of mistreatment that covered her stomach and thighs, all provided by the tools of torture favored by her second husband. Jon will find it difficult to desire me when I am so marred, Sansa thought. Well, there is no help for it. We are not marrying for love or romance and all my wishful thinking will not change that fact. But Jon is a good man who will do his duty and I must do mine. Together we will both look out for the North and our people.

After an inner debate with herself, Sansa nodded and then pulled her shift off in one fluid motion. Turning away from her reflection, she also removed her small clothes. Standing naked as her name day, Sansa reached for a favorite robe, old and worn, but in a beautiful shade of blue gray. She pulled the soft robe over her body and then tied the sash loosely at her waist.

Jon had still not made an appearance so Sansa next tended to the fire, adding a log and poking the embers until the fire burned more brightly. She then sat down in front of the mirror and began brushing her hair. When she had finished and her locks were gleaming and tangle free, she considered whether she should leave her hair loose or whether she should braid it as she normally would for bed. She began a braid, only to pull it out half way through. She held the brush, considering her image, and realized it was foolish to approach the evening as if she were a virgin bride. She was a twice married woman and her mother, if present, would certainly have advised her to act like the high born woman she was. Sansa pursed her lips and then swiftly braided her hair again, but in a moment of sudden whimsy, left the braid loose so that, if someone was so inclined, her long locks could be freed with very little effort. Once her hair was dressed for the night, she poured herself a glass of Arbor Gold. The wine was courtesy of Petyr Baelish, a present for the lovely Lady of Winterfell, he had said. While it was necessary to be wary of the strings attached, the gift itself was welcome. Sipping the delicious wine, Sansa felt the tension ease from her neck and shoulders as she sat down in front of the fireplace to wait for her husband.

**************************************************************

Jon stepped quietly into the corridor and halted, a slow smile crossing his face, when he saw that Ghost had replaced Brienne as the Lady of Winterfell’s personal guard for the night. Thank the gods, Jon thought to himself. He knelt to pat Ghost, whispering a directive that Ghost should keep a close watch throughout the night. Ghost looked at him reproachfully and nosed his shoulder, nudging him toward Sansa’s door.

Jon slipped into the darkened room, an unexpected warmth kindling low in his stomach at the thought that Sansa had left the door unlocked for him. He shut the door and threw the bolt quietly, then looked around. Jon could count on one hand the number of times he had been in this part of the castle. His step-mother had never made him welcome on the evenings when all the rest of the family, even Theon, had gathered in the Lord’s solar. On those lonely nights, Jon had been required to find his own amusements. As a small boy, those evenings had been spent listening to Old Nan’s most vivid horror stories, spun especially for the benefit of his horrified young ears. When just a bit older, under Hodor’s patient watch, he had learned to excel at skipping rocks across the creek waters. Once grown out of boyhood, while the Starks played games, or sang and read together, Jon would make his way to the castle forge and, after stripping to the waist, work with Mikken, Winterfell’s blacksmith, late into the night.

Sansa had argued with him when he had insisted she take the master chambers. She thought Jon was being overly chivalrous, giving her the more luxurious and comfortable rooms that were intended for the Lord of the keep. While chivalry was a partial motivation, in reality Jon didn’t think he could ever feel comfortable lying in the same bed where Ned and Catelyn had once slept together. Now, by some twist of fate that only the most evil god must have devised, he was actually expected to bed a Stark daughter in that same bed.

Seven hells, Jon thought. If I somehow manage to get through this evening and do my duty without shaming myself, Catelyn’s ghost will likely haunt me all the way to Dragonstone. He had briefly considered asking Sansa to join him in his old rooms, but then realized that the wedding night would be difficult enough for his bride without asking her to traverse past the very room where she had been tortured by that sadistic bastard Ramsey. Bottom line: he just needed to stop his whinging and man up.

Jon chanced a quick glance at the large bed and noticed the obvious effort Sansa had put into making it a proper marriage bed. Glancing around, he found his bride sitting before the glowing fireplace. He moved to her chair and knelt before it, one hand resting on the arm for balance. Sansa was asleep; she had burrowed into the side of the large seat, her cheek resting against the worn wood. Jon started to shake her awake, then halted, allowing his eyes a moment to rove freely over her face and form. She was otherworldly, a woman lovely beyond anything he could ever have imagined possessing. Her mouth was open slightly; without thinking, Jon leaned over and touched his lips to hers. Sansa shifted in the chair, moving instinctively toward him, as he deepened the kiss. When she moaned, the sound shot straight to his groin. He drew back, embarrassed, and the sudden movement woke Sansa.

“Jon?” she whispered, looking up with wide, surprised eyes, even as she straightened her back, morphing almost imperceptibly back into the dignified Lady of Winterfell he dealt with on a daily basis.

“Sansa,” he responded gruffly, rubbing his hand with some agitation across his bearded chin. “I apologize for taking so long, but it wasn’t easy getting Bran back into the keep without being noticed.” He rose from the chair, his normal equilibrium suddenly sluggish as if he were navigating through heavy snow.

Sansa gracefully pushed out of her chair. She ran her hands down the long copper braid that hung over one shoulder and then cleared her throat before speaking, “It seems we have somehow pulled this off without alerting anyone in the castle. I confess I didn’t really believe it would be possible.” She gestured toward a small table, “Would you care for some wine?”

Jon nodded, taking a long sip from the glass that Sansa poured for him. He glanced around the room again, avidly looking everywhere but directly at the woman standing right before him in gods alive!, a loose robe which seemed barely tied together. “Seems hot in here,” Jon muttered, pulling at the collar of his doublet.

Sansa pursed her lips, moving near to him. “No wonder, Jon,” she quietly admonished. “You still have your heavy cloak on.” She reached to pull his cloak off, laying it across the chair she had just vacated. She moved even closer, her thick lashes covering her fathomless blue eyes. Sansa reached for his scabbard belt; Jon lowered his gaze, fascinated by the way her slender fingers worked to loose the heavy belt. When it was completely undone, Jon forced himself to move, taking the belt out of her hands and lifting the heavy scabbard housing Long Claw away from his body. He leaned it against the chair and then, turning his back to Sansa, he began to remove the gleaming hauberk from his shoulders.

Jon’s hands suddenly seemed made of clay; he couldn’t seem to force the straps through buckles he had unfastened dozens of times before. “Here, let me help.” Sansa was once again impossibly close, coming to stand in front of him, their chests actually touching now. Sansa reached up to thread one of the straps through the opening and then moved on to the other side. When she was done, she placed her hands directly over the snarling direwolves on the armor’s chest. Quirking an eyebrow until he nodded his assent, she lifted the hauberk over his head with both hands. “I’ll take that.” Jon set his armor on the floor next to his sword.

Sansa reached for the top of his gambeson, but Jon pulled away. “I’ve got this, Sansa,” he chuffed. Her hands fluttered to her sides, but she kept her eyes directly on him as he pulled the laces loose, then undid the metal fasteners until the jacket lay completely open. Jon turned again and laid the garment across the top of the chair. Swallowing hard, Jon toed his boots off and bent to remove his heavy socks. He turned around, dressed only in his breeches and shirt, expecting Sansa to be directly behind him.

She wasn’t. Sansa perched on the side of the bed, all but the toes of her bare feet covered by her robe, her hands folded elegantly in her lap. Jon suddenly had an absurdly large lump in his throat. Sansa patted the side of the bed next to her and Jon forced his feet to move, nervously swallowing hard as he sat down next to her.

Neither spoke for a long moment. Jon glanced at Sansa and found her intently studying the half moons at the base of her fingernails. “This is a bit awkward, isn’t it?” Sansa’s eyes jumped to meet his, then lowered again. “It is, much more so than I had convinced myself it would be,” she confessed softly. Both intently studied their feet, then...“Sans” ---- “Jon”----- they spoke together, bodies turning toward each other at the same moment, heads clunking together like heavy ale mugs chasing toasts at a banquet. Holding his brow in protest, Jon started chuckling, then Sansa started giggling as she also rubbed her forehead. Like a boiling pot spilling over on the fire, Jon and Sansa were suddenly laughing so hard, they couldn’t stop. The pair continued to laugh uncontrollably until both had fallen back on the bed, holding their sides. Their merriment shifted down to giggles, then simmered to mere hums of amusement as they lay side by side across the big bed.

Jon stayed flat on his back, but turned his head to look at Sansa. She wiped the tears streaming down her face, then turned to face Jon, her blue eyes dazzling with humor. “I haven’t laughed so much in....I can’t even remember when,” she confessed to the man at her side as she propped her head up on one hand. Jon mimicked her, facing his wife as he smiled fondly into her eyes. “Aye, I don’t suppose you have. Neither of us has had much to laugh about these last few years.”

Sansa smiled wistfully. “Don’t you wish we could go back, Jon, knowing what we know now? Go back to where this whole mess started and make it right?”

Jon’s mouth curved just a bit, but his words were unalterably sad. “Sansa, we can’t look back. If we do, we will go mad. Just be grateful that we are,....” he stopped, then commenced again, “....at least for the present moment, we are safe.”

Sansa laid back down, then chanced a quick glance at her cousin. She was brought up short by the sight of white teeth flashing, as he absently chewed his full lower lip while gazing steadfastly at the ceiling. He was handsome, there was no denying that. She glanced again, taking in the way his strong throat bobbed from time to time as he swallowed. Her eyes went lower, to where the linen tunic clung to his broad chest in a very appealing manner. Sansa suddenly felt overcome; why did horizontal Jon suddenly seem so much larger, so much denser, than when he was vertical?

Struggling to control herself and to remember that this night was not a sonnet, but rather a serious charge to fulfill, Sansa turned her gaze to the chamber ceiling as well. A quiet moment passed, not uncomfortably, between them. A second glance to her left. “Jon, we still must see to our duty this evening,” she whispered.

A longer moment held suspended, then Jon disrupted the silence with a long shuddering exhale of breath. He must be as nervous as I am, she thought with a touch of pity for her companion. He turned his head again to face her, his voice so low and rough that she felt the vibration of it along her spine. “Aye, we must, milady, but tell me...do you think we can somehow see to our duty and still find some pleasure in the doing of it?”

Sansa’s eyes widened as she worked her mouth, trying to answer, but for once, finding no ready words at her command. Jon smiled at her obvious discomfort, a rare, crooked, remarkable smile that transformed his face into something too beautiful for mere words. He turned, reaching for her as he whispered, “Relax, sweet girl. I think we can fulfill our obligations tonight without, for once, needing many words traded between us.”

Sansa closed her eyes, fingers grasping at the soft linen of Jon’s shirt as he hovered over her, his mouth tantalizingly close. She expected his lips to descend on her mouth and she found herself over worried that he would find her breath stale from too much wine. Instead, she felt a feather touch, warm and moist, along the side of her jaw, moving from her ear to her chin, then back again. She kept her eyes closed and held her breath, waiting for something....more. Again, the feather touch of Jon’s lips trailing from her chin along her jaw to the other ear. He leaned into her, then whispered her name directly into her ear, his breath hot like a wind across the great grass seas, and her skin pebbled as if dipped in cold water.

Jon felt her shiver. Suddenly, he was on his knees, arms wrapping around her, one hand immediately below her backside and one opposite at her waist. He lifted her effortlessly, sliding her up the rose scented sheets until her head was laying on the pillows. Sitting back on his heels, his pupils blown, Jon surveyed her with eyes dark as sin. With a gasp Sansa realized that her robe had become opened in the process and her breasts were now partially exposed to her husband’s hungry gaze.

Sansa found she actually wanted him to touch her there, she wanted to experience the sensation of her breasts filling his large hands. Jon once again surprised her. His hands splayed on either side of her as he moved once more to kiss her in the spot right between her eyebrows. How many times had he tenderly kissed her forehead just like this?, but yet, never quite like this. A sudden movement down, a gentle swipe of the tip of his tongue along the sharp edge of her nose,...then a pause, a cessation of movement so still she could almost feel her nails and hair growing in the pause, then, without warning, a swoop of his mouth, taking possession of her own.

Her mouth opened under the pressure of his full, warm lips and the kiss became something entirely different. Sansa had endured being kissed before, by Joffrey, by Petyr, even, occasionally, when he was preparing to be especially cruel, by Ramsey, but nothing she had experienced before could have prepared her for this. Jon kissed her as if he were dying of thirst and she were an oasis in the Dornish deserts, drawing her tongue out to dance and play with his. She moaned as he broke the kiss just long enough to angle her head to his personal satisfaction and then he was back, his tongue chasing hers in a deeper embrace, a kiss tasting of shared wine and growing desire.

She was dizzy when he finally drew his head away, and moved down her body, finally giving her torso the attention she craved. “Jon,” she whispered, as he nudged the robe’s folds back and went rooting, like a newborn pup, in search of her breast. His lovely face was hidden from her as his breath whispered across her nipple, and it became hard, standing at attention, begging for more. Just like a good soldier, doing its duty, Sansa thought somewhat hysterically. Her head was moving from side to side, her hands wanted....craved....something to hold onto, and she reached down, in desperation, to pull the leather tie from her husband’s hair. She sighed in satisfaction as his soft curls sprang free and loosened under the slide of her fingers.

Jon was drunk on the smell, feel, and taste of Sansa. If he could have strung a coherent sentence together at that moment, he would have begged his bride’s forgiveness for treating her - his once sister, newly discovered cousin, the lady of the keep, his wife - like a whore at the brothel in Wintertown. His brain was screaming: Sansa is a lady, she doesn’t want to be fucked like a mare in heat. His body, however, was blithely ignoring that chastisement and proudly remarking that she didn’t act like she minded his behavior one bit.

He was fascinated by the way her nipples had hardened just from his breath. He nuzzled them and played with them, then overcome, took a gentle bite. Sansa jerked and for a moment, Jon was terrified he had hurt her, but then, her body pushed toward him. She wants more? Jon realized he was neglecting one half of Sansa’s beautiful body and he rushed to correct that mistake, palming the abandoned breast even as his tongue lapped over the other.

Sansa was on fire. She wanted Jon to keep doing just what he was doing, but she also wanted something else, something more. She could feel the spot between her legs grow damp with her desire. Sansa felt empty there, a deep vacant need curling in the pit of her stomach and, seven hells, she wanted, no, she needed, Jon to do something about it right away. Impatient, she alternately pulled his raven curls closer to her breast while rubbing her lower body against his.

Every breathy moan that came from her beautiful mouth sent a jolt straight to his groin. Jon was harder than a Thenn’s head and he was afraid he would spend before he could accomplish what he needed to do. Even so, duty be damned, Jon intended to give Sansa the pleasure he had begun to realize she desired. He tore himself away from feasting on Sansa’s breasts and dutifully marched his mouth south.

Dimly Jon felt Sansa reaching for him, digging her sharp little nails in his shoulders, even as she demanded to know what he was about, but Jon was far past words. He sighed when he reached her mound and softly kissed the soft thatch of copper hair he found there. Ignoring, Sansa’s gasp of surprise, he parted her folds and relished for the first time the fragrance that was uniquely his Wife.  
Burying his face into her folds, Jon reached both hands under her shapely ass and lifted her to meet his eager mouth. She tasted so, so, so good, flavors of honey, salt, and spice assaulting his tongue when he licked up first one side and then the other.

“Jon, Jon, Jon, Jon,” the breathy repetition of his name erupting from his wife’s lovely mouth spurred him on. Jon licked and suckled his wife’s tender bud. Burying his face in her lovely cunt, Jon licked and suckled again until he had no choice but to come up for air. When he glanced up to his wife’s face, he almost came on the spot. Sansa’s eyes were half-closed, the space between her lovely, arched brows furrowed as if she was desperately trying to solve a most thorny problem. Her face was flushed and the strands of her long hair that had escaped the braid were spread out from her face like rays from a copper sun. Her small fingers had found her breasts and she was pulling at her rosy nipples with mindless abandon as her head tossed from side to side on the rose strewn pillows.

He stretched his neck to reach her taut stomach and placed a moist kiss on her belly, then pressed one hand across her flat stomach, seeking to anchor her to the bed. “Come for me, sweet girl,” he whispered. “You’re close, so close.” Sansa shook as she whimpered senseless phrases, “I can’t, I don’t know, I feel, gods, I feel,....Jon, please.”

Jon hummed against the small pearl bud and smiled when he felt an involuntary shiver. He pulled the nub into his mouth, alternating hard sucks with soft licks even as he pushed first one, then two fingers into her cunt, settling into a steady in and out rhythm. Sansa was gushing and so hot inside that Jon felt like he had stuck his hand directly into a fire. Kissing her clit, Jon curved his fingers, searching for that soft mushy spot inside his wife, there it was, and then he rubbed. Sansa’s upper body shot from the bed, hands splayed out from her body for support as she stretched, furiously chasing her climax. Jon held her firmly, even as he let her ride his fingers to completion. He closed his eyes relishing the feel of her muscles convulsed tightly around his fingers and the way that her climax drenched his hand with her delicious juices. When Sansa’s movements settled, then finally stilled, Jon slowly withdrew his hand, wincing as he heard a hiss of discomfort.

Jon drew himself up until he lay flush with her body. Reaching out to cup her cheek tenderly, he whispered. “Love at me, love.” Sansa’s lips were quivering, her cheeks were wet. Gods, have I hurt her? Pleading now, he drew a long finger down her cheek and across her lips. “Sansa, sweetling, are you alright?”

Sansa’s eyes flew open as she looked at the man who had, just now, remarkably changed her whole world. He thinks he has hurt me? She blinked back the tears that threatened to spill onto her cheeks and reached out with trembling fingers to cup Jon’s cheek. Sansa flushed as she realized that the moistness drawn out of his beard by her searching fingertips was hers, but pressed on to reassure her husband. “No! Jon, you didn’t hurt me, not at all! I am sorry I am crying....I just have never, it’s just I never knew....,” she exhaled out a long shaky breath and leaned her forehead against his. “I never knew it could feel this good.”

Jon propped his head on one hand as he gazed with surprise at his beautiful companion. “Are you saying that this is the first time you felt, well, I mean, completed, during coupling?” At Sansa’s shy nod, Jon preened, feeling ridiculously proud of his unwitting accomplishment. “So, Ramsey never, I mean I know, I can see....that he hurt you, but he never ever tried to make you feel good?” Sansa looked down between them, biting her lip as she shook her head. Warring emotions hit Jon; a simultaneous urge to draw Sansa deep inside himself even as he found himself wanting to resurrect Ramsey and pound him into oblivion all over again.

He did neither. Humming quietly an old aire he had learned at Nan’s knee, Jon merely used his free hand to draw Sansa closer and to draw slow circles along her bare shoulders and back. They lay quietly for a while, Just as Jon felt his brain easing toward oblivion, his felt his wife jerk in his arms and his eyes flew open.“Wake up, Jon!” Sansa exclaimed. “We still haven’t done what needs to be done. We can’t go to sleep, not until we...,” frantically shaking him, “we have to do our duty!”

Jon began smiling; he couldn’t help it. His bride was truly a sight he would never forget, all soft skin, flashing blue eyes, and flowing copper locks. She was frantically trying to pull him to a sitting position, simultaneously pulling at his shirt and reaching for the laces at the front of his breeches, her own nakedness totally forgotten in her panic. Jon sat up in a fluid motion, sitting on his knees before drawing Sansa’s bare body flush with his. “Calm down, we still have plenty of time,” he soothed. “I just needed a bit of a break. You wore me out, you know,” he teasingly chided, enjoying the flush that spread across her pretty cheeks. He drew a long finger across her lips and then followed that with his mouth. Sansa allowed him to enjoy the warmth of her kiss for just a bit and then she pulled away, pulling his shirt up, over his shoulders, and then tossing it off the bed.

Sansa gasped. She had never seen the evidence of Jon’s horrific injuries this close. Jon had deliberately kept them from her, refusing to let her personally tend his wounds after the battle with Ramsey. She reached out tentatively to touch the scars, her finger tracing the deepest one, right over his heart. At his gasp, she looked up quickly. “Do they still hurt?” she whispered. He shook his head even as he grasped her hand to halt further explorations. A sudden wave of anger swept over her, causing her to clench her hand into a fist over his heart. “I wish those men were still alive. I would kill them all over again in the most awful way.” Jon’s mouth curved into a slow, sad, sweet smile. “Would that you had been with me on the Wall, Milady. Your ferocity would have terrified even the giants.”

“You truly think me fierce, Jon?” Jon drew Sansa up and urged her to straddle his hips, his deep voice thick. “I think you a miracle, sweet girl.” Her cautious heart fluttered at his words and her fist eased, opening like a flower that spread to gently cover his damaged heart. “Help me with my laces, Sansa,” Jon urged. Emboldened, Sansa pushed him back until he laid spread flat out on the bed. She moved to straddle Jon’s thighs, then began working diligently at loosening the laces of his breeches, then disposing of same once they were pulled down his legs. Small clothes soon followed and Sansa’s breath stuttered at her first unimpeded glance of Jon’s body. She reached out cautiously to run a slender finger along the length of his cock and laughed nervously when it rose to meet her caress. Emboldened she grasped him in her hand and was rewarded by a sharp gasp. “Gods, Sansa. I won’t last if you keep touching me like that.” Jon pushed to a sitting position and drew Sansa over his body until his cock was teasing her damp center. “I want you on top, sweet girl. Is that all right?” Sansa bit her lip, then nodded through lowered lashes, grateful beyond all words that in this moment Jon would cede such precious control to her.

Jon lifted her in one smooth motion and gently edged her down over his member. As Jon slowly filled her, Sansa’s head fell back at the sheer force of the sensations running through her body. Once she had taken Jon fully and adjusted to his length and girth, Sansa pressed forward, placing both hands on her partner’s chest for support. Jon clasped her hips and moved them, helping her find a pattern that drew moans from both. As the urgency of their coupling intensified, Sansa opened her eyes and looked down at the beautiful man beneath her. His eyes were closed, the veins in his strong arms prominent from the strain of supporting her as she moved atop him. A sheen of moisture decorated his forehead, dampening the curls that had fallen down on his face. Delicious sounds escaped his glorious lips, parted as he panted and worked to keep his movements in sync with hers.

She was close again, she felt it, and the strain of reaching for her climax caused her hips to stutter and break the rhythm they had found. Jon opened his eyes; dark with passion, they were almost black and looking into their ebony depths caused Sansa to loose even more focus. She was frantic, reaching for the elusive apex of the pressure she was steadily climbing so that she could fling herself off and find release. Sansa moaned in desperation. Sensing her frustration, Jon reached between them, finding the small bud captured in their joined bodies, circling it with loving, persistent strokes.

Sansa was close, so close. Jon urged her on, “Cum for me, sweet girl. Just let go.” Sansa shook her head in frustration, tears running down her cheeks, garbling her words as she begged him, “Jonnn, I can’t, I can’t, I’m so close, please, help me, help....”

In one impossibly fluid motion, Jon flipped Sansa until she was on her back. Still joined to her, Jon gathered her into his strong arms and slid her body up the bed until her head once more rested on the pillows. Urging her legs over his slender hips, he then placed both hands on either side of her head. Touching her face softly, Jon rasped. “Look at me, sweet wife.” As their eyes met and held, Jon began moving again, so deep, so strong, so impossibly hard and hot, that Sansa saw stars. Even as she came undone, she still felt protected and secure in a way she had never felt before because Jon’s strong body anchored her and held her safe. As her body tensed, the pressure built, impossibly hot, heavy, and demanding....then suddenly, unexpectedly, the pressure burst, and she was in a free fall of feelings so intense that she only dimly realized when Jon found his release as well.

Jon withdrew slowly from his wife’s body, leaving a mixed trail of his wife’s juices and his own seed behind. Sansa lay flat, eyes closed, chest heaving, body flushed from their exertions, and her sweet cunt still trembling from the force of her climax. No words passed between them, but Jon felt absurdly proud of himself for bringing his bride to climax, not once, but twice. Still, if he were honest, he was also shaken to the core by the force of their coupling. I never dreamed it could be like this, he thought as he stretched out beside her, one hand moving of its own volition to rub comforting circles over her taut stomach as her body gradually eased itself of all tension. Jon let out a breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding: she was asleep. He leaned over and placed a soft kiss on her forehead. Sleep well, my Queen, you deserve your rest.

After adjusting the bed furs so that Sansa was covered, Jon lay back, one arm behind his head, another splayed over his stomach. He thought about his prior life: he had only had one lover before this. Ygritte had been more experienced than he, a fierce, aggressive, and tempting vixen who had completely worn down a boy sworn to celibacy with her single minded determination to see him break his vows. Save for their first time - his first time ever - in a cave heated by hot springs, the few times after had been desperate and silent, quick fucks accomplished while surrounded by snoring, farting wildings, with only a few furs between them and the hard, cold ground.

Jon reflected about tonight. He was still stunned: he had expected the act would be an awkward consummation motivated by duty. Instead, Sansa was a revelation. A lady through and through - no doubt of that - but with a fire and passion which had made their coupling something far beyond anything Jon could have ever imagined. Jon rolled over to his side and drawing an arm across his wife’s body, edging her nearer to him, he contented himself with watching her chest rise with deep, slow breaths. Jon knew she was tired, the gods knew they both were, but maybe, it might just be possible, - if she rested now - that he might have one more chance to love her again before he had to leave her bed on the morn. After all, Jon thought as he stretched his tired muscles contentedly and closed his eyes, a king could never err by doing his duty.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon prepares to journey South to meet with Daenerys Targaryen and he takes his leave of Winterfell. He also has to say goodbye to Sansa. Needless to say, Sansa doesn't want him to go and Jon is no longer so keen on the idea himself.

Jon slips out of bed quietly so as not to wake his sleeping wife. His senses, honed by years living off the land, tell him that it is now barely an hour before dawn. Only one hour remains until he is scheduled to leave Winterfell to travel south to parlay with the Dragon Queen. 

He silently gathers his clothes and moves near the hearth where the waning fire still provides a bit of warmth in the otherwise chilly room. He dresses quickly knowing he needs to remove himself from Sansa’s chamber before the servants begin to move about. As he dresses, Jon considers that just yesterday, he was actually looking forward to his journey, having wrapped the entire venture in a grim hope that he could actually persuade Daenerys Targaryen to join the fight against the Night King. Now, after just one night with Sansa, Jon is loathe to leave Winterfell. _Seven Hells,_ he thinks, _I am loathe to leave this very room._

Jon knows that servants will soon be coming to his chambers to draw his bath and that he needs to be back in his rooms before they arrive. He had previously advised all the men traveling with him to take advantage of the warm water provided by Winterfell’s hot springs, before they leave on their journey. It will be at best a fortnight’s ride to White Harbour and he and his men will be riding hard and sleeping on the ground for most of that time. There will be no opportunity to take a bath on the road and Jon fully intends to make the most of his last opportunity for that luxury even though just now he is reluctant to wash away the lingering lavender and lemon scent that has seeped into his very pores during his short night in Sansa’s bed.

After pulling his clothes on, Jon pens a quick note to his wife and drops it onto her desk in a conspicuous spot. He then moves swiftly to the door, but as he reaches for the wooden latch that secures her chamber, he turns, unable to resist one last look at his bride. 

Sansa was laying on her side, her face turned away from the fire. The furs have slipped down off her shoulder and Jon swallows hard, drinking in the sight of his wife’s lovely bare back. Jon forces himself to turn around and opens the door. He is greeted by Ghost who rises from the threshold across which his great length has been stretched. Jon rubs his hand affectionately across his direwolf’s snout and quietly motions for him to follow. Looking left then right, Jon finds the corridor empty at this early hour and sighs in relief. He strides off at a brisk pace, closely followed by Ghost who pads silently behind him.

***************************

Her eyes still closed, Sansa moves languidly, arms stretching over her head and long legs straightening under the bed furs. She moans as the deliciously sore parts of her body twinged, reminding her of the night before. “Jon?” she turns and blindly reaches only to start up, eyes wide, as she realizes she is all alone in the big bed. She sits up quickly, looking around the room and sags back against the pillows once she realizes her husband is gone.

A sudden chill causes Sansa to shiver but she avoids the desire to pull the covers over her head and just forget the rest of Winterfell for the day. _I have to get up. I must be there to see him off. The castle will wonder if I am absent._ Sansa sighs and sweeps her tangled locks back. She closes her eyes remembering how at some point during the evening, Jon had taken great delight in threading his fingers through the thick braid, kissing each strand as it came loose in his fingers. 

Sansa rises from the bed and reaches for her robe. She moves toward the fireplace; Jon must have stoked the embers before he left for a small fire now burns merrily in the hearth. Sansa holds her hands out over the fire, sighing as the warmth seeps into her body. Waking alone in her marriage bed, she wonders if Jon now regrets what took place between them in this room. Surely he would have woken her if he had been as moved by their night together as she had been. _Stop it, silly girl,_ she admonishes herself. _This marriage was done for duty and nothing more. Thank the gods Jon made it pleasant but don’t forget this is not a love match. Keep that in mind or you will end up with a broken heart!_

Glancing out the window, she sees the faint hazy light that signals dawn is imminent. She needs to hurry. As she turns a ragged piece of scroll on her otherwise bare desk catches her eye. She moved to the table and snatches it up, recognizing Jon’s sprawling penmanship. 

_Sansa -_  
 _I needed to leave before the castle stirred and you were sleeping so_  
 _soundly I didn’t want to wake you._  
 _I trust my Lady Sister will be in the courtyard to see me off._  
 _I hope my Lady Wife will meet me in the crypts just before so that we_  
 _can share a more private farewell._  
 _\- Jon_

Sansa holds the letter to her chest, her lips grazing over Jon’s signature. His words give her hope that Jon has been as affected by their night together as she has been. She looks at the note once more and then regretfully feeds the scrap of paper into the flames. It will not do for Jon’s message to be discovered. She rushes to the hooks where her dresses hang and makes a quick selection. She has little time to prepare herself and Sansa would regret any time lost between her and Jon this morning because she has lingered over her usual morning rituals.

*******************************

Deep in the crypts, Jon impatiently waits for Sansa. He is dressed for travel, wearing new garments and his old cloak that has been refurbished for the journey by Sansa’s own hands. She has insisted on sewing for him, stating that he needs to look the part of a King if he is going to impress the Dragon Queen. He paces back and forth, riding gloves slapping against the palm of his bare hand as lighted torches transform his frame into long shadows dancing across the walls. 

To get to this special spot, Jon has passed the most recently deceased of the Starks: Ned, Robb, little Rickon. He has paused briefly before his mother’s figure and touched her stony cheek, as he gazed into her sightless eyes. Not for the first time he wonders what she and his father - his real father - would think of him. Would they be proud of him or would they admonish him for the mistakes he has made as he climbed his way toward leadership of the North? Would Robb and his Uncle Ned hate him for taking their Sansa as his own or would they understand he had only done it out of necessity in order to fulfill his duty to the North? _Does he even believe that himself?_

  
Jon grimaces as his honest nature forces a silent confession that when it comes to Sansa, his feelings for her are much more than those of a duty bound monarch. He whispers a soft goodbye to Lyanna and his other kin, then moves deeper into the crypts, past his grandfather and his Uncle Brandon, both murdered, gods help him, by his other grandfather. Each step takes him back further and further along the many generations of Starks entombed beneath Winterfell until finally he reaches the massive ancient tomb of Torrhen Stark. Along with Robb, Arya, Bran and yes, even Sansa, he has often hidden here when playing their seek and find games. He trusts that Sansa will remember their time together as childhood playmates and find her way to him.   
  
********************************

Sansa makes her way to the crypts via the old tunnels that run from the Stark family quarters. She suspects that Jon would have used this path as well so she isn’t surprised when she finds a lighted torch just past the juncture at which her husband would have entered the tunnels from his own rooms. She has often played in these tunnels as a child and while they aren’t her favorite place to walk alone, she now has reason to be glad for them if they will keep her liaison with Jon a secret from the rest of the keep. 

She pulls her hastily donned cloak more tightly around her as she enters the chilly crypts and hurries down the path toward the older graves. Jon will be standing behind Torrhen’s tomb; it is the most private spot in all of Winterfell. She whispers his name as she draws near, then repeats “Jon!” slightly louder as she arrives. Suddenly a large hand reaches out and pulls her behind the tomb, drawing her close.

“Jon!” Sansa scolds her husband as she half-heartedly pushes against his chest. “You gave me a fright!” The gruff tones of her Northern groom ease over her, soothing her agitation just as surely as the hot springs flowing beneath the castle comfort her aches and pains. “Sansa, love. You knew exactly where I would be,” he whispers as he brings her hand to his lips. “Just like a doe drawn to the spring grass,” he murmurs as he traces a path with his mouth down to the sensitive skin of her wrist. 

Sansa closes her eyes and leans even closer into Jon’s embrace. “Must you go so soon?” she whispers. Jon opens her long fingers and presses a soft kiss into her palm. “You know I must. If I stay, we chance alerting those better left ignorant as to our activities of the last few hours.” 

Sansa drops her forehead into his fur-clad shoulder and giggles, “Our activities?”   
Jon pulls back so he can get a better look at her. He tries to look stern but loses the battle as a rare smile breaks across his face. “Aye, milady. Some of your behaviors last evening would have scandalized the most hardened soldier in the keep, to say nothin’ of your ladies. For shame....” Jon’s teasing is cut off as Sansa presses her mouth to his. He angles her head so that he can deepen the kiss, sliding his tongue across her lips and then moaning as she opens her mouth and her sweet tongue meets his. He pushes her back against the stone without breaking their kiss, cupping her breasts in his hands, pushing his leg between hers. Sansa responds by drawing him even closer and shamelessly rutting against his leg. 

They continue to devour each other for another long moment, Jon being the first to break away, panting heavily as he tries to distance himself from the temptation that is his lovely wife.

“Sansa,” he gulps, taking deep breaths of the stale air to calm himself, “We have to stop. It is not proper that I ravish you like this, in this way, in front of your ancestors. I need to go meet the men. You stay behind, then follow after a few moments.” He pushes reluctantly away from her and steps to the side of Torrhen’s tomb, turning his back on her. Without Jon’s arms to steady her, Sansa leans heavily on the stone, willing her heart to slow and her pulse to return to normal. “I will miss you, husband,” she says gently. Jon turns to look at her and her heart breaks. He is so handsome, so strong, _so alive_ , black hair pulled back, eyes dark with want. He takes her hand but gingerly this time, almost as if he doesn’t trust himself or his actions.   
And I will miss you, wife.” He plants one more gentle kiss on her forehead, a kiss much like the brotherly ones he had always given her prior to receiving the news that Bran and Sam had brought them, the news that had turned their small world upside down. He draws his palm gently down, just skimming her aching breasts, to the side of her waist, and then he slides it over to cup her flat stomach. Looking down, Jon murmurs, “Do you think that we did our duty well enough last night?” Sansa smiles and covers his large hand with her smaller one. “Time will tell, husband. We certainly gave it our best effort, don’t you think?”

Jon wraps his arms around Sansa and draws her close, whispering into her temple, “You certainly did your part, love.” Sansa holds on to her husband tightly, tears threatening as she deliberately seeks to keep her tone light. “Margery Tyrell always told me that while a woman takes longer to reach her pleasure, she can find that peak many more times than a man.” Jon hums absently against her hair as she continues in a matter of fact tone, “Margery was very knowledgeable about many things, but I think you would have surprised her, cousin. I lost count how many times....” 

Jon cuts her off, groaning as he kisses her again and again, desperately trying to imprint his kisses onto her very soul. Just as he feels his control slipping yet again, he forces himself to pull away. Desperately seeking to distract himself, he busies himself by pulling his gloves on. “I have to get to the courtyard. Wait a few minutes before you join us.” Sansa reaches for his hand and squeezes it tightly, but Jon refuses to look at her again. Taking a deep breath Jon pulls his hand from her grasp and without looking at his wife again, he starts back the way he had come, each soft sob that sounds behind him a lash across his heart.

Jon has almost reached the entrance when he hears shuffling steps just ahead. He stops abruptly, hoping that Sansa isn’t following too closely behind him. “Who’s there?” he calls out, pulling one of the torches from the wall and waving it into the darkness. A pause, then Petyr Baelish, ambles into the light. “Littlefinger,” Jon growled. “You have no place visiting the Stark crypts.” 

Baelish gives him one of his patented smirks and waves a hand around the alcove. “I merely came to pay my respects to your father, Your Grace. Ned Stark was a good man and certainly didn’t deserve the horrible death he found in King’s Landing.” Jon grunts, but says nothing in response. He has learned quickly that Baelish spins the words of others into sticky webs that often hopelessly entangle them. Littlefinger approaches him and turns to look at the stone visage of Lyanna Stark who is mere feet from where they stand. Baelish moves closer and studies the woman for a long moment, then turns, smirking again. “Your Grace, I had the honor of meeting your aunt during the Tourney at Harrenhal. A most singular woman.” He reaches out to trace her outstretched hand and Jon fights the impulse to sling him away into the darkness. “Wild as the wind she was, but as beautiful as a spring day. No wonder Prince Rhaegar lost his heart to her.” 

Jon is fighting panic now, worried that Sansa will appear at any minute. Of those currently occupying Winterfell, Littlefinger is the last person he wants to suspect anything regarding his secret marriage to the eldest Stark daughter. He raises his voice in the hopes that she may hear him and remain in the shadows. “Did he now? I always heard that he lusted after her, kidnapped her, and raped her. You tell a different tale for certain, Lord Baelish.” 

Baelish turns suddenly, barely disguising his contempt for the man before him. “I was there and I can tell you that Lyanna appeared all too willing to spread her leg.....” Baelish gasps as Jon acts, quicker than thought, shoving him roughly against the wall, his gloved hand like a vise against his throat. He struggles ineffectually while Jon holds him pinned at will. “Listen to me, you sorry worm,” Jon hisses. “You will keep your opinions about the Stark women to yourself. And you will leave Sansa alone, or I promise you, if you touch her, if you as much as breathe on her, I will hunt you down and kill you,” her snarls, shaking the man like a rag doll, “Do you understand?” Baelish nods, grasping desperately at Jon’s fingers, and then Jon lets him go, wiping his hand down his side as if he has just touched filth. “Get out of my sight.” Gasping for breath, Baelish staggers back toward the entrance to the crypts and Jon follows.

When he arrives at the entrance to the crypt, daylight is just breaking over the courtyard. He finds Ghost sitting at the entrance to the crypt, a scrap of material between his paws. Jon bends over and picks up the expensive fabric, fingering it until he starts chuckling. It is a piece from Littlefinger’s cloak. He drops the cloth, then kneels and fiercely hugs his direwolf. “Good boy, Ghost. Keep an eye on him for me while I am gone. And stay close to milady. Protect her and take care of her as only you can.” He looks deep into Ghost’s red eyes and sees, as always, the sharp intelligence of his direwolf. He sighs in relief, knowing that Ghost will die before he lets Sansa come to harm.

Davos calls out to him then and for the next few moments, he busies himself, checking the supply train, greeting the castle folk who have risen early to see their King off, and tightening the girth on his own saddle. He stops for a special word with Sam, drawing him and Gilly into a private huddle. “Keep an eye on milady, Sam.” He takes a deep breath, hoping that Sam will understand the meaning behind his next words, “I would have a _special_ word from you about her from time to time.” 

Sam bobs his head genially, “Of course, Jon. Gilly and I will take good care of Sansa while you are gone.” He arches his brows in an expression Jon knows only too well and he heaves out what Jon supposes is a romantic little sigh. “And, gods be good, when you get back, I will want to hear all about last night and....ooofff,” Sam stops as Gilly employs a well placed elbow in his stomach to silence him. Gilly looks at Jon in her pragmatic way, “We’ll look after Sansa and keep her company, Your Grace.” 

Jon smiles at his best friend’s companion. “Thank you, Gilly. That makes this a lot easier.” 

Jon next endures a bear hug from Tormund which ends abruptly when Lady Brienne comes into view. Tormund sighs, another lovesick fool, and casts a longing glance toward the lady warrior. Jon coughs, “Tormund, I need a word in private with Lady Tarth.” The big wildling nods and wanders off in a daze, Brienne pressing her lips together in a thin line of disapproval before turning back to Jon with a curt nod. “Your Grace.”

Jon motions for Brienne to follow him as he steps back a bit from the teeming center of the courtyard, then whispers, “I just had a very unpleasant encounter with Lord Baelish in the crypts, milady.” Brienne frowns and Jon notes with approval that her hand quickly grasps the handle of the sword at her waist in a no nonsense manner.

“I do not trust his intentions toward my....toward Lady Sansa. You will watch him carefully?”

Brienne nods firmly. “I swore an oath to Catelyn Stark that I would protect her daughters. I meant it and I would die before I let that vile man harm Lady Sansa.” Jon nods and claps the tall woman on the shoulder. “I am trusting you to do just that, Lady Tarth.” He lowers his voice even more. “And if you need to seek advice before taking any, shall we say, _drastic_ action, send a raven and I will respond if I possibly can.” Brienne steps back and bows her head. “Yes, Your Grace.”

The sun is now creeping over the eastern ramparts of the castle. Everything is in readiness, his men in their saddles, with Ser Davos sharing last minute words with Yahn Royce. Jon feels tense. _Where is Sansa?_

Davos clasps hands with the old Vale soldier and turns to Jon. “Bout time we ride out, Your Grace.” Jon nods and looks back toward the crypts. “Just a few more minutes, Ser Davos,” looking him steadily in the eye, willing him to understand his meaning. “I had thought to say goodbye to my sister before I leave and then I need to share a few words with the good folk who will remain behind.” 

Davos nods sagely and turns to brush his stubs across his horse’s nose when a clear voice, like a bell in the early morning light, sounds out across the courtyard. “Were you actually going to leave without saying goodbye to your sister, Your Grace? Are you that eager to find your way into a dragon’s maw?” Davos admires Sansa’s cool. No one who had not been present in the godswood the evening before would have any inkling from her appearance that Sansa and Jon had spent the evening together as man and wife. Sansa sounds as exasperated as ever with her stubborn brother and Davos notes with satisfaction how the citizens of Winterfell are hiding smiles behind work worn hands as they prepare for the Lady of Winterfell to once again lecture the King on his wayward ideas. 

Sansa approached Jon. “You have found everything you require in readiness, Your Grace?” She folds her hands inside her cloak and regards him benignly, thanking the gods that no one can see how her legs tremble and her stomach churns at the thought of losing her husband to the south. Jon responds in a gruff voice, his accent thickened by the emotion he is forced to shove deep down inside him. “As usual, milday, you have proven your worth many times over.” He hopes she understands that he is not talking only about her administrative skills as chatelaine of the keep. When she smiles, a tremulous little glance meant only for him, he nods and then turns to face the folks milling about, voice raised over the bustle so as to be heard. 

As Jon glances around the courtyard, out of the corner of his eye, he sees Bran sitting quietly at the edge of the crowd. He sighs then, remembering the very specific something that Bran had told him he must do before leaving, _“Do this so the North can stay free, Jon,”_ and he lifts both arms up in a gesture meant to quiet his subjects, waiting until silence falls before speaking. 

“People of the North. I am traveling south, not because I want to do so, but because I hope to secure help from the Dragon Queen in the fight that is coming.” He glances toward Lyanna Mormont who is wearing her usual frown; Jon suspects that today’s grimace means either that she is worried for her King or, more likely, that she would like to skewer him with his own sword for his decision to leave his people. He swallows and then continues. “If I do not succeed, our chances of surviving the long night that is coming are slim. In truth,” and here he glances at each and every soul watching him, “in truth, I do not think we can survive without the help I seek. I know my duty,” he glances back at Sansa, “and I will do my best to secure help for my people.” 

“Because I am going into hostile territory, because I may well be held hostage and forced to do things which are against my will, it is necessary that I act to protect the North. I cannot be forced to bend the knee and thereby give up the independence that we have so recently fought so hard to secure.” Jon pauses again, refusing to look at his wife when he speaks again. “That is why I have decided to temporarily name my sister “Regent of the North” until I return.” Gasps were heard across the space, but Jon forged ahead. “I cede all authority and sovereignty to her and retain only those powers that will allow me to secure a mutual treaty of arms between the North and the Dragon Queen.”

He turns now, looking back toward Sansa, willing with all his heart that she hears and understands his words. “I know it may seem as if I do not care for my kingdom, that I do not care for my people. Nothing could be further from the truth. My brother was declared King in the North, the first since Torrhen Stark bent the knee to Aegon the Conqueror. King Robb did not bend the knee but he was still betrayed and Winterfell was lost.” He hears some of the lords in attendance mutter in grudging agreement, then glances at Lyanna Mormont who has a rare look of approval on her dour little face. “The North Remembers! I will not let the North fall again. I cannot be forced to give up a throne I do not possess. I cannot bend the knee when I do not serve the North as its king. Until I return, I ask you to honor my sister as your Queen.” 

He turns then to see Sansa standing beside his charger, a slim, solitary figure, and it tears him in two that he is going away, his regret at leaving her sharper than the knife Olly once twisted in his heart. 

Jon moves toward her then and takes her hands in his, squeezing them just a bit too tightly. She looks at him, blue eyes swimming with tears, and he nods, turning once more, even as he clutches her hands as if they are the only thing keeping him standing. “People of the North, I give you your Queen." He squeezes her hand again, "Ned Stark's daughter. Queen Sansa! Queen in the North!” 

Ser Royce drops to his knee first, then Karstark, Lord Glover, and finally Lyanna Mormont follows with a huge grin on her face. Soon all of the people in the courtyard fall to their knees as a loud chant rings out in the sharp morning air. “Queen in the North! Queen in the North! Queen in the North!”

Closing his eyes, Jon presses a quick kiss to Sansa’s forehead, whispering under his breath, “Take care, my love,” and swings himself into his saddle before he can change his mind. Jon nods to Davos and the Onion Knight takes off apace, leading the small party of men and pack animals out of the gates. Jon reins his horse in for one last look at his home and he exhales in relief as he sees Lady Brienne stepping to Sansa’s side while Ser Royce draws close on the other side, followed by Sam and Gilly, and finally Tormund. He scans the crowd and halts, sawing on the reins as he notices Littlefinger with arms crossed, casually leaning against a stable wall. _He can’t leave her in Winterfell with that snake, no matter how many people he has charged with her protection._ But just as he is about to vault out of his saddle and call the entire mission to a halt, he sees a flash of white just behind Baelish and he realizes that Ghost is sitting directly behind the man, red eyes fixed on his prey, tail swishing with deliberate intent. His direwolf will protect Sansa. 

Jon grins in spite of himself and spurs his horse into a gallop, eager to catch up with the rest of his party. It is past time for him to go and secure the Dragon Queen’s army in order to save his kingdom, to return with dragons that can kill the dead once and for all, and then hopefully, when the wars are over, when the Night King is finally defeated, if the fates are kind, to come home to the woman he loves. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is the final chapter of Daybreak, but I have every intention, if the gods are good, to continue the story of the Starks and their royal Targaryen cousin in a new segment. I made one major twist from TV canon in this story so I hope you are ok with the idea that even if Jon is forced to do something against his will, or pretends to do something to gain Daenerys' help, it will still have no legal effect on the North's independence because he has ceded sovereignty to Sansa. Given that, there will still be plenty of angst moving north to south and south to north in the next portion of my story. And, of course, Maester Sam may have an important raven or two to send south....


End file.
